


Vessels

by Necrowmancer



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Amnesia, Dogs, Dragon Trait Miraak, F/M, Mind Control, Miraak as a vessel for Hermaeus Mora, Multi, Not Beta Read, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Possession, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2019-12-02
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:08:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21643453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Necrowmancer/pseuds/Necrowmancer
Summary: Miraak has been rescued from Apocrypha by the Last Dragonborn, Peaches, and his freedom finally looks as though it's in his grasp. But while Miraak does not suspect that his string of blackouts are particularly unusual, Peaches begins to realize not everything is as its seems. Hermaeus Mora is not going to let go of his Champion without a fight - and it's only a matter of time before he takes over and Miraak fully becomes his vessel.Based on an idea by Mamma-Dragon
Relationships: Dovahkiin | Dragonborn/Miraak, Female Dovahkiin | Dragonborn/Hermaeus Mora/Miraak, Female Dovahkiin | Dragonborn/Miraak
Comments: 2
Kudos: 19





	Vessels

The world rushed back into perspective with the sudden sensation of falling, followed by a lurching and abrupt stop.

Miraak stared up at the ceiling.

For a long moment, his mind couldn’t seem to process what he was seeing. He could see it clearly - a dim, blue-washed grey. Low lighting. The erratic dance of dark, shapeless shadows. But no thought accompanied the image at first.

Slowly, his heart came down from a rapid pounding to a dull thud, his breath becoming unlodged from his chest where it still felt like a heavy weight had been placed. His limbs felt like they had been made out of lead, and dimly he was aware that it ached somewhere under the current sensation of being numb and not fully in control of his extremities. 

Miraak closed his eyes, forcing himself to take a deep breath. That was the first time since he’d awaken that his brain seemed to finally grasp some sort of input from his surroundings.

A smell.

Miraak paused in his breathing, lungs half full as his brain scrambled to place a name to what it was. A smell that was not damp, musty pages, or ink, or perhaps fermented fish. Something his brain  _ knew  _ he’d smelled before, some time long ago, but had since forgotten.

Smoke. But not the faint, brief smoke of conjured fire, or burning paper. The hardy, deep smell of burning wood. Pine logs. The faint, acidic tinge that tingled the inside of his nostrils. The deep, full scent of firewood. 

His eyes opened again. 

A ceiling, made of wood paneling. Overcast grey skies outside, and a wind that made some sort of plant outside the window sway and cast its shadows across the greyish planks. The gentle tap of rain, the occasional scratch of branches, the distant sound of the fire producing that nostalgic smell. The weight of thick wool blankets over his body. The feeling of woven sheets under his skin.

Miraak’s breathing started again with a slight gasp. The intake of breath made his throat sting, making him realize exactly how dry his mouth was. For a moment, he ran his tongue across the roof of his mouth, as if to check his own lucidity. Then, he shifted his arms a bit, forcing his aching muscles to respond and to very gingerly push himself up. His head felt heavy once it left the comforting embrace of the pillow, but it allowed him a moment to get his bearings.

A small room, one that was likely not made to house a bed. What Miraak recognized to be a loom was pushed to the far end, piles of sewing material scattered on and around it where it had been hastily pushed and discarded. His bed didn’t quite fit his tall form, leaving his feet to dangle over the end. A chair had been left against the wall, and a nightstand had been placed next to that and under the window. A ceramic pitcher decorated with simple but picturesque mountain flowers blocked part of the view to the world outside. A field stretched out past the window, filled with tall grass that ended with the edge of a dark, thick pine forest. A bush and a short tree crowded next to the window, shielding the glass pane from the worst of the rain but not protecting it fully. Droplets slowly danced down the uneven surface, leaving distorted streaks before disappearing below.

Their movement mesmerized Miraak, feeling familiar and yet so incredibly foreign. But they reminded him of how thirsty he was. His gaze shifted to the jug on the nightstand. A gap as wide as a door frame separated him from the edge of the nightstand, marked by the glowing yellow light that poured in from some neighboring room, broken up into geometric shapes by some sort of barrier that was no taller than waist high. But in the moment, what lay outside of the room was not his concern.

Miraak tried to force his body to listen to his commands. It did, but slowly. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt so wholly exhausted - he could have sworn that it was like trying to run in water, or like it was the first time trying to lift something heavy. He placed his palms flat against the bed, trying to swing his legs around and over the edge of the bed. The gap was just too wide to reach with his arms, and if his body was feeling this weak he knew he wasn’t going to have the strength needed to support him if he strained himself. The simple task felt monumental, but after a few moments he finally managed.

His feet touched down on a soft knitted carpet, catching his attention again. He paused, allowing himself to absorb the sensation of having something like that under his feet again. His gaze drifted down.

In retrospect, Miraak was glad that his body was so slow to react, because he was certain if he’d been feeling better he would have hurt himself. Miraak jerked himself back sharply, managing to push himself back across the bed and into the wall with a loud, resounding thud that rattled the glass and knocked some sort of hanging decoration off one of the neighboring walls. Ultimately, he wasn’t sure what he’d expected to achieve by having such a violent reaction - it wasn’t like he could run away from  _ himself. _

And, in fairness, Miraak supposed it had been some great length of time since he’d last seen himself without his robes on. In Apocrypha, there had been no reason not to have his robes and mask on all the time. Time meant nothing there. There was no need for anything that might involve  _ change.  _

But the black daedric symbols scrawled up and down his body between rough patches of plating, skin and scale had most certainly  _ not  _ been there the last time he’d checked.

Miraak’s heart lurched up into his throat again, causing him to tense and dig fingers into the gritty texture of the wall. The writing snaked around his legs, across his stomach, his chest, his arms, hands - everywhere he checked, the writing was there. Unmoving. Black. Inky.

There was a clatter of metal tools in the next room over and the shuffle of boots.

Miraak’s attention snapped towards the doorway, its existence suddenly relevant. He tensed again, pushing his back up against the wall harder like it might give way to somewhere safe. His back arched, trying to shift himself slowly into a crouch, legs shaking under him as he braced himself against the wall and the bed like some sort of gargoyle. There was the sound of many claws scraping against the wood floor, accompanied by the gingle of a few bells, before a shadow broke the light seeping in from the doorway. There was a momentary feeling of primal fear, of vulnerability, even if the power of his Thu’um was still ready in the back of his dry throat.

A woman. Miraak stared, watching as she kept back a herd of dogs with one foot while carefully moving what appeared to be some sort of child gate placed between his room and the one she was coming from, put up no doubt to keep the mongrels out. She lifted her gaze from the gate and to the bed before jumping back in her own surprise, holding her hands up to her chest as she gave Miraak an equally wide-eyed stare. Her lips drew into a thin line, gaze holding his, before it faltered.

Swiftly, she turned, making her simple farmer’s dress and long brown braided hair swing around her in the process. “Miraak,” she began, clearing her throat stiffly as the tips of her ears began to turn red, “I-i’m afraid I had to remove your garments. If… you weren’t… already aware.”

Miraak paused, before shifting a bit awkwardly. He plopped back down on the bed, his legs more collapsing under him from the strain than really sitting, before he pulled some of the sheets over himself. Still, he remained tense, leaning up against the wall as he stared at the back of the other dragonborn.

Peaches. That was right. The Imperial woman from Solstheim. The  _ Last  _ Dragonborn. Her tired visage sparked a flood of memories. Her pack of dogs. Her unwillingness to fight. Her desire to seek a peaceful option.

Foolish. He thought she was foolish. There could be no peaceful option. Hermaeus Mora wouldn’t let it happen. He admired her resolve, but he knew there was no hope for it. She would die, or he would. He hadn’t wanted to admit it, but that was the way Hermaeus Mora had rigged things, and Miraak feared that it would play out that way no matter how hard either of them fought.

But apparently, he had been wrong. This was not Apocrypha - though the runes on his skin made him question what exactly had gone down, if that had to do with anything Peaches had started.

“How long have I been unconscious?”

The words were hard for him to speak - they made his throat hurt and his voice waver.

Nervously, Peaches glanced over her shoulder to assure that he was modest before she turned and picked up the pitcher of water. “Two weeks. Really, it hasn’t been as long as I was anticipating,” she said quietly, turning to face him. Miraak’s gaze was cold, but she didn’t let scare her. She offered him out the pitcher, keeping ahold of it until she was certain he could lift it on his own without dropping it.

Miraak wasn’t sure if he could remember water tasting this good, or remember tasting water at  _ all.  _ He brought the ceramic to his lips and felt the blessing of cool water meet his mouth, and it did not leave until the entire jug had been swallowed.

Peaches waited, hands worrying wrinkles out of the front of her apron as she waited for him to be done. The silence unnerved the poor woman, but Miraak paid the drawn out pause no mind. Finally, he broke away from the edge of the jug with a weak gasp for breath, tenderly bringing up the back of his hand to his mouth to wipe the remaining water from his lips before handing the jug back to Peaches. 

Gingerly, Peaches took the jug from him, quickly setting it aside before awkwardly looking back to Miraak. Miraak’s mismatching eyes glared at Peaches intensely, giving her the feeling of watching a cornered animal ready to strike. Peaches pursed her lips tightly, before taking a deep breath to speak again.

“How are you feeling?” Her voice wavered a bit, still as uneasy sounding as she had the first day they met.

Miraak’s lips drew back a little, flashing sharpened teeth. “I’ve… seen better days,” he replied slowly, glad his throat no longer cracked when he spoke. Still, it felt strange to really hear his own voice again. Real, normal. Back in Nirn. Slowly, he tried to relax himself, settling back against the bed again with a labored exhale as his muscles screamed at him from remaining so tense.

Peaches nodded quickly, anxiously tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you exactly what happened when you arrived, but… you took quite a fall. You had a lot of bruises when I first checked,” Peaches explained, trying not to maintain direct eye contact with him. “Most of them are gone now at least, but with how long you’ve been laying there and how long you’ve been…” Her talking picked up speed before trailing off, eyes cast down to the side at the ground.  _ With how long he’d been in Apocrypha… _ Peaches wasn’t sure  _ what  _ to expect from him.

Miraak glanced to one of his arms, slowly turning it to examine it. A few dim, brownish spots remained along the outside of his forearm and bicep, discoloring some soft skin, but otherwise he looked fine. Fine, with the exception of the daedric scripture. It coiled around his bicep, spiralling down before it formed a final ring around his wrist. Another circle of it lined the back of his hand and the interior of his wrist.

“Was this here when you found me?” Miraak questioned, making a vague gesture with his other hand to the tattoo-like marks.

Peaches glanced over, furrowing her brow before she nodded. “Yes, it was. That and your, um…” she made her own vague gesture to a patch of plating and scaling along the outside of his arm near his elbow, “...scales…”

Miraak snorted, pulling his arm away to rest it on his lap somewhat defensively. “And you do not have any?”

Peaches seemed taken aback at his comment. “No!” She almost gasped, before her brow scrunched in further on itself in worry. “Am I  _ supposed  _ to?”

Miraak looked at her quizzically, finally taking a chance to look the woman over. It was the first time he’d seen her without any armor - every other encounter prior to this she’d been in mismatching platemail and chainmail that had clearly been largely cobbled together from wealthier bandits who happened to have  _ vaguely  _ the same body size and stature she had. While her simple dress kept most of her skin covered, her face now was plain to see - and unlike him, the Imperial lacked any sort of draconic features. No horns, normal eyes, normal ears, normal, scale-less skin.

This time Miraak furrowed his brow, before grunting. “It doesn’t matter,” he replied sharply, forcing himself to relax more. His gaze flicked around the room again. “Where have you put my things?”

Peaches carefully stood, straightening her dress before walking to the other end of the small room. She moved aside some of the supplies that had been shoved back there and pulled forward a large wood chest, pulling on the hinges before she opened it up. “I set them in here after I washed and mended them,” she said, waving her hand to the contents inside. While Miraak couldn’t see everything, he could see the edge of his mask, and that was enough. He nodded, leaning back once more as Peaches shut it and returned a few blankets on top of it. “Your sword and staff are near the door - I didn’t have a good place to put them in here. My house isn’t exactly made to store weaponry,” she admitted, pacing back to sit down in the chair.

Miraak tilted his head at her, making her immediately draw her gaze to somewhere else in the room again. “So, you removed me from Solstheim,” Miraak commented, glancing past her shoulder at the window and the world outside.

Peaches glanced at him briefly, before following his gaze to the grey lit field on the other side of the glass. “Yes, very shortly after you arrived,” Peaches confirmed with a nod. “I couldn’t trust your cultists. Things… things were too weird there, on Solstheim. I thought it would be better if I brought you here. Not many people know where I live and… I feel like I can trust this place a bit more than I can trust Solstheim. Especially with the Skaal after you.” Peaches grimaced. She’d left the island with a very strained relationship with the Skaal. She wasn’t sure if they’d caught wind of her success by the time she left, but she wasn’t willing to hang around and find out. It made her stomach churn to betray Frea and her people like that, based off of everything they’d told her about the  _ Traitor, _ but Peaches also knew she couldn’t confirm what they were saying. And she couldn’t bring herself to kill Miraak either. She hoped that the Skaal, and Frea especially, never found out about her success. Maybe the disappearance of Miraak’s strange magic would be enough to ease their worries and allow them to return to their way of life.

Miraak nodded in acknowledgement, but said nothing else. A heavy silence fell between the two of them again, making Peaches shift uncomfortably before finally standing. “I- I was going to make stew for dinner. Obviously I wasn’t… planning… on you being suddenly awake, but you’re free to have some if you’d like and you’re feeling up to it. It’s venison and garden vegetables. I-if not, I have some other food I could prepare for you if stew isn’t what you want,” she said quickly, gripping the pocket of her apron. 

Miraak looked at her curiously. “Stew will do fine,” he said, becoming aware again of the smells wafting in from the other room. His stomach growled at the thought, making him grimace as Peaches couldn’t help but smile slightly, before quickly covering her mouth.

“I’m sorry,” she apologized quickly, bowing her head. “I shouldn’t be rude. You haven’t really had anything solid to eat,” she said quickly. She’d managed to keep Miraak alive by force feeding him a liquid mix of milk, ground meat and peas through a tube - it wasn’t glorious, but it worked. And if she hadn’t had prior experience doing it, she was certain Miraak would be dead - not many knew how to care for people who were unconscious for any real length of time.

When was the last time he’d eaten  _ at all?  _ His brow furrowed slightly for a moment, not acknowledging her apology. His dark gaze wandered off to the side, unnerving Peaches again. The woman finally stood up, brushing her dress out as she did. 

“It will be ready soon. If you need anything, just ask. T-there’s a change of clothes on the loom, though they might be a tad… small… for you. I tried to hem them so they might fit better, but... “ she nervously teased at her apron, not looking at Miraak. “Try to take it easy. I-if you’re feeling up for it after you eat, I can run a bath for you or something, if you think you can make it to the other side of the house. I-it’s not that far, and I can probably support you if-”

Miraak finally looked up to her. “I can walk,” he interjected in a low tone, causing Peaches to shut up. He watched as the imperial nodded her head stiffly, before shuffling back over the gate and out of the room. Miraak could hear a handful of dogs shift after her as she shuffled away, before the sound of kitchen utensils filled the neighboring room again. Miraak stared at the door frame, before slowly trying to relax back into the bed again. He closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the wall, taking a deep breath as he tried to gather his thoughts.

There was a lot to take in. Being free from Apocrypha. The long-dulled and forgotten sights, sounds, smells and textures. The fact that he was now back in Skyrim, stuck in the house of the Last Dragonborn who was treating him like a feeble old man.

He gave a soft grunt, finally sliding himself to the edge of the bed. Trying not to look down at himself again, he slid his legs over the edge once more, making sure his feet were firmly planted on the woven carpet below his feet before he slowly tried to push himself up. Immediately his legs felt like jelly, trembling at the strain of trying to support his body, but he refused to let himself remain so…  _ helpless.  _ He let himself fall back onto the edge of the bed again, situating himself before he pushed himself to standing once more. This time, he leaned forward to brace himself against the opposite wall with a hand, using it to slowly make his way over to the loom. Each step felt far too difficult, but he gritted his teeth and strained until he’d made it to the strange machine. Sure enough, like Peaches had said, some clothing had been neatly folded over the top. A farmer’s top, and rough trousers. Miraak grabbed the shirt, using the wall to help support him as he pulled the shirt over his head. It was a bit short on him, and he could feel it stretch uncomfortably across his chest and shoulders, but it would do - even if it smelled heavily of dust. Next, he grabbed the pants, but one attempt to stand on one leg was enough for Miraak to realize that he did not have the strength to do that again. Reluctantly, he returned to sit on the side of the bed to pull the pants on from there. 

Two weeks, and he was feeling so  _ weak.  _ He tried to ignore the unfamiliar texture of the cloth, so used to wearing the same robe for what was now  _ thousands  _ of years. 

Two weeks he’d been back in Nirn. Miraak’s fingers passed over a rough patch on the side of the trousers, pausing to feel the texture of the threads that held the mis-colored cloth in place. And he’d spent it in bed, unconscious, at the mercy of the world around him. His gaze shifted up to the gate.

Three dogs watched him from between the weaving, ears perked up. They were shaggy-looking mutts - and only one of them looked anything like the wolfhounds he’d been used to when he’d last been on Tamriel. The other was far smaller than any dog he’d ever seen, with a golden coat, while the other he could only identify as some sort of Cyrodillic hunting breed he’d seen illustrated in books. Their ears folded back as Miraak looked at them, and the wolfhound had the audacity to  _ growl  _ in his direction before he could hear Peaches sigh and shift to shoo the dogs away from the gate.

“Behave, Turkey,” Peaches muttered, idly swinging a towel towards the three dogs until all of them had gotten up and shuffled away from the doorway. She paused within sight of Miraak, shaking her head as she presumably watched the dogs go lay down somewhere else, before she glanced in at him. She stiffened for a moment, before rubbing the back of her neck. “I’m sorry for them. They’re just… not used to guests,” Peaches said quickly, a frown tugging at the edges of her features. She started to head back towards the kitchen, before pausing again. “Ah, do those clothes fit?” she asked, looking Miraak over.

Miraak looked down at the worn clothing. The pants sat awkwardly on him, and didn’t reach his ankles, but they were better than nothing. He absent-mindedly tugged at the front of his shirt, trying to get it to pull less across his broad chest. “They are… small,” he replied with a shrug.

Peachces frowned. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to take your measurements while you were sleeping. I’ll try to mend them more while you get cleaned up, and then I’ll see if I can’t buy you clothes that fit right,” she said quickly, before heading back out of his sight.

Miraak sat on the bed for a few more minutes, hands rested on his thighs as he tried to center himself. Everything almost felt like he was in a dream. If it weren’t for the fact that it was so  _ sharp  _ and  _ clear,  _ he’d be certain that it was all just an illusion created by Hermaeus Mora. The mere thought and possibility of this being nothing more than a cruel lie made his empty stomach churn, and he was certain if he’d had any amount of food in his stomach he’d lose it. He curled his fingers into his pants for a moment, before he forced himself up again and headed to the doorway.

Peaches’s house was a lot smaller than he’d been expecting. His room sat on the right side of the house, and a large open room stretched out in front of it. A large, hearty fire sat in the center, with a slight depression on all sides to allow for sitting and cooking. A pot already hung on one side, bubbling with stew, while a handful of dogs lay around the warm fire pit. Various shelves and a small table were pushed into a corner aside the entry door, and the opposite side of the room had a collection of cooking supplies and a place to prepare meals. Miraak could make out a staircase leading up to a loft above his room, and a door that mirrored his room on the other side. One of the dogs, a fluffy husky Miraak hadn't seen before, lifted his head off of the floor as Miraak came into view. He let out a soft bark, and Peaches looked up from her place in the kitchen area with a sigh.

“Behave, all of you,” she said, setting down a knife before hurrying over to Miraak. Without asking, she removed the gate from between his room and the main room, setting it aside against the wall. “It’s almost done. There’s… some seats at the table if you’d like, or next to the fire,” she offered, keeping her gaze on the ground as she moved out of his way.

Miraak didn’t immediately move from the doorway. He watched her stand there for a second, before she quickly just nodded her head and hurried back to slicing a freshly baked loaf of bread. The smell made Miraak’s mouth water. Had it always smelled so good…? His stomach growled again, making him huff under his breath before carefully using the wall to make his way to the table. He could see Peaches glancing back at him from behind her messy brown hair, trying not to stare at him directly but making sure he made it to a seat. His glance was enough to make her stop and pay closer attention to what she had been doing. 

She was worried about him, and she feared him. Miraak snorted softly, turning to look around at the room. Rightfully so. He was the First Dragonborn - a human born with the soul of a dragon, so powerful that both man and dov feared him. But here he was, struggling to walk, so weak that she had to worry over him like he was a child. More than anything he was frustrated at himself for allowing this to happen, though he wasn’t sure  _ how  _ it had gotten to this stage anyways. His memories before waking up were hazy at best, which wasn’t exactly new for him. Stretches of time, whatever  _ time  _ had meant in Apocrypha, would go in and out of being hazy for no reason Miraak could really place. At first, he had just assumed he’d lost himself in how stagnant Apocrypha was. After awhile, he began to realize that he really did seem to be just… blacking out. Losing segments of time and memory, with no discernable trigger or pattern. The fact that he had no memory of what exactly had happened before returning to Tamriel was vexing, but not unusual or really all that surprising. He knew that he had met Peaches, and she had been against slaying him. He knew he’d accepted that he would have to kill her to leave Apocrypha, especially as she destroyed the Guardian Stone’s connection to him and Apocrypha. The fact that he seemed to have woken up from anything at all surprised him. Somewhere inside, there had been a part of him that had accepted the possibility of his death.

But he wasn’t dead. Peaches, somehow, had freed him. She didn’t understand how herself, which didn’t ease Miraak’s thoughts. Was he truly free? Was this all just a trick? Peaches seemed… genuine, but perhaps that was her flaw. She would be easy to trick into what could appear as a benevolent offer. For all Miraak knew, he could still be tied in Mora’s web, all because Peaches was too naive and optimistic about the ways of daedra and the fate of men.

The smaller dog Miraak had seen before pulled him out of his thoughts as it sniffed at his exposed ankle, its wet nose brushing his skin. Miraak almost jerked back at the sudden sensation, making the dog leap back in surprise as well. They yapped at Miraak before bounding off to hide behind Peaches’s dress, making her look quickly back at Miraak in surprise. “Did she bite you?” Peaches asked quickly, looking horrified.

Miraak grunted and shook his head, trying to relax back into the seat again. “No,” he scoffed lowly. “Just… surprised me.”

Peaches sighed in relief, closing her eyes for a moment. “I can put them outside if you’d rather.” Miraak didn’t respond, eyeing the small golden mutt as she peered out from behind Peaches’s dress. Peaches pursed her lips, before finally turning and picking up the plate she’d placed the bread on. “You’re… honestly the first person who’s stayed here since I got them, so they’re not very well behaved. When you first arrived, Juniper tried to attack you whenever I left the room,” she said, making a head motion to the husky. He watched as his owner set the plate down on the table near Miraak, before letting his head flop back onto the floor. Miraak looked between the dog and Peaches, remaining silent. “I put up the gate so they couldn’t get you while I wasn’t looking, but I’ve kept them outside while I’m gone. I-it’s never for long, but… well, they’ve gotten better since you’ve been here. I think it will just take them some getting used to having someone else around the house,” Peaches continued quickly, moving to grab bowls before making her way to the pot beside the fire.

Her words made Miraak’s face darken a bit. “I do not intend on staying here, you know.”

Peaches paused for a moment after setting the bowls next to the fire. Quickly, she shook herself out and opened the pot, grabbing a large spoon before filling the bowls. “I understand,” she said quietly, a slight frown tugging on the corner of her face. “Still, I imagine…”

“I will not need long to recover.”

Peaches closed her mouth, silently pouring another scoop into a bowl. Miraak could see her shoulders sag a bit at his words. “What will you do?”

Miraak leaned back, picking up a slice of bread. He turned it in his hand, feeling the soft, warm texture of the inner bit before he brought it up to his mouth to take a bite. “What I will do is none of your concern.”

Peaches finally picked the bowls up, frowning hard as she brought them over to the table. She set one down in front of Miraak with a spoon before sitting on the opposite side of the table, placing her bowl in front of her. “I…” she paused, holding her spoon just inches over her stew. “I figured…”

Miraak stiffened. “You saved me, yes. And you have ensured that I survived while I was unconscious. But you have taken me from Solstheim, and I still do not know how it is that I am here. There is much for me to figure out still, and I do not need your help any longer. Provided that you have not gone and made some sort of  _ pact  _ with a daedra to return me to this realm, I have much to do now that I am finally free,” Miraak said firmly. 

Peaches flinched a bit at that, looking at the wood grains of the table. “No, I didn’t, but…”

“Good. Then we have no further business with each other.”

Peaches seemed taken aback by his words, setting her spoon down for a moment as she finally looked up to him. Miraak did not entertain the look, instead focusing on downing the food in front of him. He could feel her gaze on him for a few more seconds before she finally resigned to eating in silence herself. This obviously wasn’t what she’d been hoping for, but Miraak wasn’t sure if he cared. He’d been trapped for millenia in Apocrypha - if he was finally truly free, he would be trapped nowhere ever again. Not even the Last Dragonborn’s home.

It’d been a very,  _ very  _ long time since Miraak had seen himself. The man stared into the mirror, brow knit together as his mis-matching eyes stared back from his reflection. At one point, his eyes had been a beautiful, fiery gold - and now, his right eye was a solid black, while the left’s scalera had gone black but his eye and pupil had taken on the look of Mora’s sickly green octopus eye. His black horns still curled up from his brow, untouched by the ages in Apocrypha, and the scales that patterned his cheeks and the bridge of his nose remained relatively unchanged as well. Now though, black daedric text streaked down over his left brow and cheek, coiling back under his chin before forming a noose around his neck. He slowly reached up and brushed some white hair back from his neck, watching where the pattern curled back behind his head or disappeared into his hairline. 

This had not been there when he’d gone into Apocrypha, and it had not been there the last time he’d seen his own skin - even if that was several millennia ago at this point. What it  _ was  _ and what it  _ meant  _ was beyond him - which unsettled him deeply. Over 4000 years in the realm of Knowledge had given Miraak a deep understanding of a very vast variety of topics - but what exactly this was that had been scrawled on him was not something he’d encountered. According to Peaches, it had been there when he first arrived to Nirn, but how long had it been on before that? Hours? Days? Centuries?

He pushed himself away from the sink and the mirror, moving towards the warm bath Peaches had poured for him after dinner. After so long of not changing, Miraak was finally feeling  _ dirty -  _ and the knowledge that he’d just been lying there for two weeks with only a sponge bath or two made his skin crawl. He couldn’t lie - he was excited to sink into the warm water and take some time to enjoy being  _ clean  _ again.

And, to Miraak’s relief, a set of stairs already lined the edge of the tub, making it easy for him to get in. The edge of the tub was easily reachable normally, but until he moved more there was no way he was going to get over it without falling. Miraak settled into the tub, exhaling in relief at the feeling of warm water. Why Peaches had stairs, he had no idea, but it wasn’t his problem right now.

The last time he’d been in warm water had been the night before the dragons laid siege on his temple. How relaxed he’d been even then, unsuspecting that his secret had been found out, and that his life would soon change for the worst. Miraak’s eyes grew heavy as he sank further into the water, letting his long grey hair pool out around his head. 

How long ago in the past that was. Long ago, and forgotten. Peaches had not known who he was. Nobody had known who he was. He wasn’t even the First Dragonborn to history. His birthright title, stripped from him. His achievements, buried and claimed by others. And now he was finally free, in an era that had no memory of him and had no use for him. Peaches had slain Alduin. How was beyond him. There was no doubt that she was powerful if she had achieved such a victory, but the meager woman was… not the dragonborn he was expecting. When he had first met her, he could feel her power - truly, she was a real dragonborn like he was. But under that armor, standing before him in Apocrypha, she had seemed much more brave. Even when she made it clear she had no intention of slaying him and wanted to find a way to save him, she seemed confident.

Now that they were in her home and she was out of her armor, she seemed weak. Scared. Timid. It confused Miraak. She had argued with him on setting him free, on refusing to fight him - she would not even look up to him when he decided on leaving immediately. She did not feel like the same woman he had met on Solstheim.

Miraak leaned back into the tub, sinking down until his nose was only just above the water. He did not want to stay there and remained trapped in the Last Dragonborn’s house, but he didn’t actually know what to do or where to go. Peaches had mentioned  _ cultists _ , and if he thought hard enough he could vaguely remember the words and calls of people at the Guardian Stones, but these cultists weren’t…  _ his.  _ He did not recall ever establishing them, and his memories of interacting with them were brief and unconscious. No doubt some of it had been an accident from exerting his will on the island to try to ensnare the Guardian Stones, but that did not mean that he trusted these people. Even if they were supposed to be serving him, he had no knowledge of them, and no trust. Returning to Solstheim was his first plan, but the vague idea of what had gone down on Solstheim while Peaches had been there told him that he should return when he had a better footing in Tamriel. 

But where did that leave him? The Dragon Cult was  _ long  _ gone, excluding the fact that his last interaction with them had been utter betrayal. Nobody knew his name, and likely what few did were dragons who would be happy to slay him the moment they saw him. He had no fear of them, but he knew he could not just go out and make enemies with everyone all over again. On top of that, he wasn’t sure where he stood with Hermaeus Mora. If Peaches couldn’t give him a straight answer about how he’d returned, he couldn’t make any guesses as to what the daedric prince was thinking. Had he been released against Mora’s will? Could the Daedric Prince of Knowledge be out there looking for them? Had Peaches mistakenly made some sort of deal? Was Miraak really just on a short leash that Mora could tug on any time still?

Miraak felt a surge of frustration. He wanted deeply to believe that he was finally really free, but until he was sure that all of his ties had been cut with Mora and that Peaches hadn’t foolishly made any new ones with any other sort of awful being he couldn’t be certain. He needed to get away from the Last Dragonborn though. She could easily be a target herself, and he did not want to be a sitting duck waiting for both of them to get attacked by a furious prince. He just had to find out what to do instead.


End file.
